The Hanson brothers had a plan to get me through the Chicago Marathon. The problem? It went against pretty much everything I believed in.

The words keep invading my consciousness. They shove aside any reassuring thoughts that four months of training for the Chicago Marathon should have wired into my brain. It's two minutes until the gun—I should be thinking about how I haven't missed a single day of training, or how I just ran my fastest 5-K since college. Instead, I'm obsessing over how my longest training run was a mere 16 miles.

"You ready?" asks the squat, 50-something-year-old guy next to me. He's wearing a big, goofy smile. He's probably run six 22-milers in preparation for this race.

I look at him and think, I haven't the faintest idea. I've been following this crazy plan cooked up by two guys from Michigan. I've abandoned the core principles that have guided my marathon training for the last 15 years. I'd gladly trade places with you if I could, you grinning bastard.

"I guess I'll find out soon enough," I say.

Race officials remove the barrier before our corral, and the throng surges forward. When the gun cracks, there's a moment of stillness, a Bengay-scented freeze-frame. Then it's all flailing arms and legs.

I hit the first mile 20 seconds slower than planned. Easy, Adam, easy. You have the whole race to make up time.

Just then, Kevin Hanson jumps out from the crowd and into the street, cupping his hands to his bearded mouth. "Good! Good!" he screams at me. "You look relaxed!" And then the guy from Michigan is gone. No, I'm gone. Moving forward. Wondering what the next 25 miles hold for me. If the last 10 miles will be a death march. And what, exactly, I was thinking when I veered off the conventional training path and onto the marathon road less traveled.

The Hanson brothers have been training elite runners in their renegade ways for more than a decade. Back in 1999, American distance runners had hit a wall. At the time, Kevin Hanson, now 50, and his younger brother, Keith, 45, owned and operated a Michigan-based chain of running stores called Hansons Running Shops. Kevin, a former collegiate distance runner at Michigan's Oakland University, was also coaching cross-country for the local high school, where he'd guided the team to three state titles. Keith, a one-time All-Big Ten runner at Michigan State, was running the stores. They both believed that Americans had forgotten a key ingredient to the success marathon runners like Frank Shorter and Bill Rodgers had enjoyed.
"People had stopped doing group training," says Kevin. "We'd lost that team concept of 'You make me better, and I'll make you better.'" The brothers also saw a flaw underlying the ways in which Americans were training. "Everyone wanted a regimen that would leave their legs feeling fresh," says Kevin. "They wanted to know, 'How can I get that spring in my legs?' That was the wrong question. The question should be: 'How can I train my body so that when the fatigue hits me, I'm still able to respond?'"

To that end, the brothers started a team for elite postcollegiate U.S. distance runners, now called the Hansons-Brooks Distance Project (sponsored by shoe and apparel manufacturer Brooks Running). The project has guided more than 25 men to qualifying times for the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials, including Brian Sell, who finished third at the 2008 Trials. In October, Desiree Davila was the first American woman at the Chicago Marathon in 2:26:20, finishing fourth overall.

The Hansons' marathon-training philosophy is simple: "Running a marathon is all about pace," says Kevin. "Our program teaches your body and mind how to run your goal pace, no matter how tired you are." They've designed their training, which they've used with both elites and midpackers, around a concept they call "cumulative fatigue"—high weekly mileage volume and a steady diet of hard workouts. Those workouts, dubbed "Something of Substance," or SOS, include a speed or strength day run slightly faster than goal marathon pace, a marathon-pace tempo run that gets progressively longer, and a long run done 45 to 60 seconds slower than goal pace.

"All successful training programs have speed, tempo, and long run components," says Kevin. "Our program differs because we put equal weight on each part." In conventional programs, he says, runners often do little training at their marathon goal pace. But in their plan, "the workouts are all calibrated around your marathon goal pace so that, come race day, you'll be able to hit your splits in your sleep."

Perhaps the most notable feature of the plan is the absence of a sacred cow—the 20-plus-mile long run. For non-elite runners like me, the long effort tops out at 16 miles. "People say, 'How can a long run be only 16 miles?'" says Kevin. "Then they'll finish that run and say, 'Gosh, I don't think I could run another 10 miles.'" And they'll be right, he says. With the plan's emphasis on high mileage and hard workouts, "you're not running the first 16 miles of a marathon, you're running the last 16. We're duplicating that final-miles feeling." Traditional programs overemphasize the long run, he says. Twenty-plus mile efforts sap most runners and compromise the quality of subsequent workouts. "There's nothing magical about a long run of a certain distance," he says. "The most important factor is quality total mileage, week in and week out." It's a formula, he says, that holds true for beginners, elites, and everyone in between.Throughout the first 10-K of the marathon, I try to heed Kevin's prime directive: Stay in control. My plan was to hover around 6:05 per mile. The day before, he'd reminded me, "For every second you're fast on the front end, it will cost you two on the back." But by mile seven, with the boisterous crowds, and endless runners to pick off, I've dropped the pace down to five seconds per mile faster than goal pace. I'm feeling good, so I decide to lock down and see what happens.

I hit the halfway point a little more than a minute ahead of pace. I suck down a gel. My legs feel solid. Maybe those Hansons aren't so crazy after all. Who needs 20-mile training runs anyway?

At mile 18, the crowds thin. I switch on my iPod for some inspiration. "Life During Wartime" by the Talking Heads hits me like a jolt of Red Bull. I stick out my tongue, mugging for the crowd, and my cadence picks up once again.

To call my 1993 marathon debut inauspicious gives it way too much credit. Three years after concluding my collegiate running career at the University of Pennsylvania, I set out to run the New York City Marathon with what I considered to be a modest goal for me—break three hours. But midway through, fueled by rowdy Gotham crowds and blissful ignorance, I tossed that time aside for a loftier target: 2:50.

Not surprisingly, the wheels fell off.

I finished in 3:20, looking more like an extra from Zombieland than an erstwhile Division I athlete.

Over the next five years, I managed to drop my PR to 2:59, following a program that relied on grueling track sessions (13 one-mile repeats anyone?) and long, slow runs that reached 30 miles (no, that's not a typo). But I continued to experience late-race bonks. That changed when I scrapped the uber-distance runs in favor of 14- to 22-mile progressive efforts, where I'd start out easy and eventually reach marathon pace. In 2003, I finished the Chicago Marathon in 2:36.

In the years that followed, however, the minutes began piling back on. I still ran hard, but my training lacked structure—increasingly, I decided what to do based on how I felt. Still, I longed to break 2:40 one more time. At 41, I knew I couldn't hold back the aging process, but if I could recapture the focus I once had, it might relight my competitive fires and keep me excited about running for years. Yet, as a single dad with two boys and a demanding job, I no longer had the luxury of spending three hours on a long run (nor the rest of the day impersonating the walking dead). The Hansons' plan, with its abbreviated long runs and structured regime, drew me like a middle-aged guy to a sports car.On paper, the plan appeared reasonable. But in practice, it wore me out.

Tuesday's speed (or strength) session consisted of two three-mile intervals run at 5:25 to 5:40 per mile. It didn't sound particularly intimidating to me at first, but my Monday night dreams came to be haunted by visions of the impending lung-searing visit to the high-school track. Thursday required an ever-lengthening tempo session, which taught my legs, lungs, and mind what my marathon pace felt like. Sundays were for long runs. Okay, not the talismanic 20-miler, but even a "mere" 16 miles at a 6:45 to 7:00 clip takes its toll, especially on tired legs.

I sandwiched these sessions between four weekly "recovery" runs of six to 10 miles. The Hansons' program for beginning and advanced marathoners is essentially the same, except experienced runners can add mileage (but not intensity) on recovery days and trade the rest day for another day of easy running. As a veteran of 40 marathons, I chose zero rest days. Building mileage volume is key, says Keith. "Sometimes running when you're tired isn't a bad thing. Once your body adapts, there's a callusing benefit. You just have to get through a period of feeling pretty crappy in all your runs."

Crappy indeed. As the weeks crawled by, I felt increasingly fatigued. On weekends, the extra hour I saved with my "short" long runs was usually spent soaking in the tub, lying in bed, or sprawled on the sofa, my body laboring to recover.

Despite the fatigue, my legs seemed to agree with the plan. I was running 65 to 70 miles per week—my highest mileage since college—yet I remained injury-free. As much as I would have loved to back off a little, I had no excuse. Still, my brain longed for one, so I kept bargaining with it: Get to the end of the week, the month, through the tune-up races.

Those tune-ups began just over a month before Chicago. I raced a 5-K and a 10-K on successive weekends. The efforts felt a bit flat, but when I plugged my times into pace charts, they offered hope for a 2:40. Fifteen days out, I raced a final 10-K to shore up my confidence. But when I accidentally veered off course at mile four and trashed my time, my fragile runner's ego began to crumble. Was I really in shape to run 26.2 miles? I had to know. The next morning I found another 10-K and tried again. My effort was strong, and I felt good about my performance. That is, until I spoke to Kevin.

"Races on back-to-back days?" he said, his voice rising half an octave. "If I'd been in the car with you, I would've locked the doors and not let you out." He remained quiet for a long moment. "But you probably didn't hurt yourself."

Only 10 days remained until the race. "At this point, you're not going to get the physiological benefit of any workout you do until after the marathon," said Kevin. "You can only do damage."

"So don't screw up all my hard work?"

"Exactly."
Oh, but I craved a final 20-miler. Give me one hard 20-mile effort, and I pretty much know within a couple of minutes what to expect when I cross the finish line. Instead, I was basing my finish on 5-K and 10-K races—little more than spitting distance when it comes to a marathon. All I had was a logbook full of workouts. And a guru telling me to trust him.

Instead, I force myself to think about my training, my pace runs. These are the miles I've been training for. This is why I endured all those long runs on tired legs. I can do this. Manage the pain.

Just after mile 23, I turn into a headwind that feels like a cyclone. My pace has fallen by 20 seconds per mile to about 6:20. I will myself up Michigan Avenue, one quad-searing step after another. I do my best to tune out the increasing number of runners passing me.

I look at my watch every two minutes. Every minute. Every 30 seconds. I imagine I'm losing time in chunks, but my brain can't compute splits. There are glimmering distortions at the corners of my vision. This is bad. The last time I saw those was during the Las Vegas Marathon 14 years ago. Vomiting followed.

Hang on, hang on.

At mile 26, I lurch up "Mount Roosevelt," the highest elevation point, rising 24 feet. It feels like 2,400. The course turns, and I see the finish chute. Some guy in those weird arm warmers blows by and rouses me from my mobile coma. I muster up a stiff-legged sprint and edge past a runner in a white tank top, and just nip another. I lunge at the finish line.

I look down at my watch: 2:38:49. Someone wraps me in Mylar; someone else hands me a bottle of water. I try to open it, but my fingers—blanched white by the cold—glide uselessly over the ridged side of the cap. A volunteer sees my conundrum and cracks the seal for me. As I drink, thoughts begin to flow back into my head—one in particular.

Ten years earlier, on this same weekend, I'd run the Portland Marathon. I'd been ecstatic with my time—2:39:52. Today, I ran a full minute faster—and finished as the seventh overall master. I feel like Ponce de Leon. I look for Kevin and Keith, but they aren't around. Probably attending to their elite athletes. No matter. I want to tell everyone—the guy who checks me out of my hotel, the cabbie who takes me to the airport, the flight attendant who gives me an extra bag of pretzels: "I'm faster at 41 than I was at 31." Instead, I content myself with a round of celebratory calls, texts, and e-mails to family and friends. For the rest of the day, the grin never leaves my face. That night, I fall asleep repeating my time to myself.

"Great job!" Kevin tells me the next day. "You bought into the system, and it paid off." I confess to him that I'd had my doubts about the whole 16-mile long-run thing. He laughs. "Well," he says, "I hope you're a convert now."

I am. Sometimes, less really is more.

The Hanson way: "Let the body recover without the mind losing confidence."Severe tapers can leave you flat. Cut mileage by 20 percent two weeks out; 40 percent one week out.

The Hanson way: "You can't bank time."Going out too fast in the beginning means you have zero seconds to draw on later in the race. In fact, you're investing in a crash.

The Hanson way: "Forget about your splits in the last 10-K."You should have a good idea of what you have left. Time to tap the reserves for all they're worth.

The Hansons' Less-Is-More Plan

Speed, strength, and tempo sessions—combined with shorter long runs—will help marathoners of all abilities run a better race.

A total of six miles of intervals at 10 seconds per mile faster than marathon goal pace. Intervals should be 1600 meters or longer. Examples include: 2 x 3 miles (one-mile recovery jog); 3 x 2 miles (800-meter recovery jog); and 6 x 1600 meters (800-meter recovery jog).

Off Days

If desired, advanced runners can add mileage on these days.

MP

Run at marathon goal pace.

Long Runs

Run at 45 to 60 seconds per mile slower than marathon goal pace.

Tune-Up Races

If desired, in weeks 1 through 10, run a 5-K or 10-K on Saturday. Simply substitute that week's Tuesday speed workout with Saturday's mileage. Do the same if running a 10-K in weeks 11 to 14, or you can run a half-marathon on Saturday (at goal marathon pace). Substitute that week's Thursday marathon-pace run for Saturday's mileage.